Love in Superlatives
by TheBookshelfDweller
Summary: 'One might love you in so many ways – which is not to say one should love you at all.' There are people who are easy to love. Sherlock Holmes is not one of those people. There are people who love easily. When it comes to Sherlock Holmes, John Watson is one of those people. Whether that is a smart idea, is another matter completely.


**Author's note:****You know how sometimes you are working on something big (read: a three-part story series), and then a completely unrelated thing pops into your mind? Yes, well, this is one of those things. The poem in this fic is one of my own works, so no disclaimer is needed there. Originally, when I wrote it, it was completely unrelated to "Sherlock", somply an outlet for my thoughts about loving people who are hard to love (but we love them anyway, even if it may not be in our best interest), but upon reading it again it seemed fitting...and so a poem fic was born.**

**Disclaimer - my evil plan to overtake the ownership of all things Sherlock-related hasn't been put into action yet, so no - not mine.**

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

One might love you the way they would a summer storm –

With an amalgam of unease and awe,

For your ferocity, both frightening and enthralling.

Tumultuous thunder thrumming in a moment's reprieve

From belligerent heat and merciless sun,

It is a dangerous love, stemming from adoration of havoc.

* * *

Were it not for the cuffs chained around their wrists (such sharp metal on such delicate skin – dangerous), would John still have grabbed Sherlock's hand that night? But wait, that's not the right question – it's too far away down the line, to close to the end. Rewind, then.

Were it not for...? For...?

It's just that...there are so many watershed moments in which John Watson could have taken either one of two roads (and always chose the same), that there is no point in listing them all, questioning them all. There is no point, mostly because the answer is always the same.

_Were it not for this and that, were it not for then and there, would he still have...?_ _Would he still have chosen to be with/to run with/to defend/to believe in/to trust/to see the best in/to love Sherlock?_

There is infinity of infinitives and the answer is yes, to everything. Yes, despite the fact that Sherlock is dark and hyetal and stormy. No, that's not right, not _despite_ – yes, _because _Sherlock is dark and hyetal and stormy. Yes, because he is equal parts hypnotising and daunting. He is an assault to the senses, but what a beautiful synaesthesia that makes – too much sound (_rain's angry beat, thunder and wind in a grim duet_) that tastes like childhood fears; too much liquid blurs and blinding flashes occluding proper vision (_lightning that draws outlines on the bitter sky, like sutures of a skull cracking, viewed from the inside_) and seem to tingle along the skin. Sherlock is captivating, and fearsomely so.

In the beginning, he is a refreshing contrast to the heat of the desert, and the grey of the life that came after the heat. He battles the heat with torrents of words, cold and clinical, rain-like (_hail-like, really_), ones that hiss as they melt on over-warmed (_sun-burnt_) skin. He banishes the grey, shunning it out with vivid darkness and bright lightning – he is a study in contrast, dark and light doing their seductive dance all over him, all around him. He is uncensored, so blatantly different from the heat and the grey, somehow primal – a thunder that shakes the very core of one's being, and resonates with something primordial that lays asleep there.

Afterwards, the answer is always yes because, once you've seen such a storm, the change in perspective is irreversible. John stands and looks, perpetually torn between admiration and disbelief (_fear_) as the storm that is Sherlock Holmes unfurls in front of him. It's absolute havoc at times, and yet, John never seeks out shelter – not from the rain, nor the hail, nor the thunder and lightning – he always stands right in the outpour. And he loves it.

* * *

One might love you the way they would a winter's day –

Frost-bitten and left trembling by your frigid beauty, blindingly pale.

With aching extremities, cracked lips, and no prospect of being loved back,

Admiring with anguish the crystalline artistry of apathetic perfection

Which resents osculation and thaws in rejection.

It is a harrowing love, to love the abrasive cold of snow's flak.

* * *

Snowflakes may just be the most over-used example of uniqueness in nature. Still, at the heart of every cliché there is the truthfulness of it that made it into one in the first place. But if John were asked to compare Sherlock to something, it would most certainly not be a snowflake. Surely enough, Sherlock is one of a kind, uniqueness by definition. Surely enough, he is intricate and complex and, well, beautiful (_beautiful mind_). But he is not a snowflake. A single snowflake is gentle, incapable to causing harm on its own. So, Sherlock isn't a snowflake – if John were asked, he'd say Sherlock was more like snow. Snow is composed of a multitude of snowflakes, which, accumulated like that, make for a seemingly beautiful pile of uniqueness, but one that takes a toll if one wishes to admire it from up close. A chance to be immersed in such beauty is paid in frost-bites and head-colds, in pain of inadequate blood flow to fingers and toes.

That's the thing with snow – one may love it, and ardently so, but such love must always be combined with the acute knowledge that it cannot be reciprocated in ways similar to those in which it is shown. Snow doesn't love back (O_h, but it does, it does. Rarely, but in this case it does._). Lay yourself open to someone and you are walking barefoot on snow.

Sherlock is like snow – blinding in the best of ways, comprised out of uniqueness and idiosyncrasies, and, if loved properly, from up close, with abandon and without barriers (_bare feet and gloveless hands – naked hearts_), capable of inflicting many wounds, inadvertently, with only its (_his_) nature. Try to change it (_him_), to warm it (_him_) up so it suits your preferences, and it (_he_) will thaw. One must love snow for what it is, or not love it at all.

Loving Sherlock, John thinks, is like loving snow – one must adjust their thermostat, embrace the cold, smile through frost bites – it is a harrowing and often seemingly (_only seemingly_) unrequited love, but in the end, it is always, always worth it. It is worth it, because you get to stand surrounded by vast whiteness, get to look at the bits that constitute it, inspect it from up close – a glimpse and a privilege granted only to the most dedicated ones. It is worth it, because on rare occasions, if you stand in the cold for a long-enough time, you get to touch, and the snow doesn't thaw. It is worth it all to know what it feels like to feel snow under one's fingertips and not get bitten by it.

John counts his frost bites, and smiles through them all. It is worth it.

* * *

One might love you the way they would the volatility of spring –

Immersed in the frenzy reverberating with life,

Revelling in the transience and gasping for breath.

It would be with recklessness and such an effort to forget

That there is only so much ephemerality will permit.

It is an intoxicating love, consuming you as you consume it.

* * *

John forgets sometimes that they are mortal, the two of them. With Sherlock's adamant refusal of all things normal in terms of basic human needs, such as sleep and regular food intake, combined with the adrenalin rushes that have become a regular occurrence, the fact that their bodies do have their limits sometimes slips both their minds. It is usually John who is reminded of it first, and who has to remind Sherlock of it, too.

He hates those moments, though not as much as Sherlock does. Those instances that tether them to reality so much more boring than the one they create for themselves among London's rooftops and passages, among the crows and rats, running above the light of street lamps and below that of stars (_they are constantly running on light_). In that reality, the line between thrill and danger is almost inexistent, shouts of warning flow to laughter almost as easily as their steps turn into leaps that bridge gaps and cover distances made of empty spaces. In that reality John can start to understand Sherlock's past addiction. If injecting chemicals in his veins felt even close to this, then he can understand – not condone and never encourage, but it is no longer a mystery _why_. Because that reality is intoxicating, all-consuming. Only problem being that, at a certain dose, the _intoxicating_ part turns toxic.

Still, he gives himself whole-heartedly, he gives himself whole, because it might be reckless and it might be insane, but it's the most alive thing he has ever done. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to make self-destructive behaviour appealing. Well, maybe that's not entirely fair – some of that appeal simply calls out to that of which John is made.

Loving that reality is strikingly similar to loving the man who makes up much of it. It's an experience full of amazement and awe, but one that should not be over-thought, because if John were to stop and think every time he had to jump from roof to roof, jump in front of a bus, _jump after Sherlock_, he would still be standing on that first rooftop, during their first cab chase. And if he were to think about loving Sherlock, he would never jump over that gaping abyss, either. So he doesn't think, he just jumps, and revels in the high. He might fall once, lose his footing and fail to reach the other side. He might crash, because he is mortal, and so is Sherlock, and they have their limits. But he doesn't think of that too much. Instead, he jumps, time after time.

* * *

One might love you the way they would the autumn gale -

With hunched shoulders fending off the vertigo of foliage deceased,

For the harshness of your altercation and eminence upon which you feast.

In your aerial embrace there's no amenity nor consolation,

Only the resigned familiarity of inimical infatuation.

It is a detrimental love, to love that which turns a caress punitive.

* * *

There seems to be a lot of purple in John's life with Sherlock. It is the colour of one of Sherlock's favourite shirts, and the colour of Mrs. Hudson's dress. Purple is the colour of bags under John's eyes after four days of little-to-no sleep while on a case and of the high that lead him to acquire them. It is a cross between red of anger and blue of resignation that so often make up the majority of feelings elicited by Sherlock, by his actions, but more than anything (_most of all_), by his words. Sherlock's words leave purple bruises in shapes of syllables.

He is a tongue on legs, his speech matching the brisk rhythm of his steps, while the meaning of his words often matches the frozen ground upon which he beats that rhythm – cold and hard, but undeniable. People can say what they want about sticks and stones, but John knows how Sherlock can use words – like weapons, a mark of definite superiority.

It isn't always like that, and it isn't always cruel, but Sherlock rarely considers the impact of his words beyond the one he finds practical. Still, it's Sherlock, and while it may not be completely fine, it is the way it is. It's Sherlock, so it isn't easy, but it's worth it, and it is beautiful in its own special way. Sherlock's usual use of words is like the purple of a drowning-victim's lips – leaning towards the colder part of the spectrum, undeniably sinister , but mesmerising despite everything – because when Sherlock talks, it is always just that- mesmerising. Sherlock's purple-tinted words.

However, every now and then, Sherlock uses words with the exact knowledge of possible damage they might leave in their wake. If you've ever been whipped by gusts of cold November winds you'll understand what those instances feel like. It is an art, the way Sherlock finds exact words that will hurt the most, those that will hit the softest, rawest segments one tries to hide under roughened skin and angry scabs. There is something resembling skill and talent in Sherlock's ability to produce pain using only his mind and vocal cords. Those instances are dyed with that ugly purple found on the skin of a bloated corpse in slow decay.

Sherlock talks, and talks, and talks, replying to sentiment with complex syntax and impeccable grammar, and leaving ligature marks where his words wrap around parts of John's heart, either with their sudden gentleness, or exquisite callousness. John argues and disapproves, admonishes and warns, but he never regrets. Sherlock brings shades of purple into John's life, some warm and velvety, others cold and harsh, but all inextricably a part of the detective. A variety of shades, but in the end, it's all one colour. In the end, it's all Sherlock. Purple is the colour of Sherlock's shadow – of his faults and flaws. It isn't easy to accept, and it's even harder to love, but despite all that, Sherlock's detrimental sort of purple becomes John's new favourite colour.

* * *

One might love you the way they would the yearly revolutions –

As constancy of change and gyrating variety of days, a mercurial litany

At times, with zeal affiliated with Sun's radiant emission,

At others, with contemplation usually reserved for hyetal skies, in resignation.

There is requirement of endurance in appreciation of this erratic repetition,

It is an exhausting love,one in constant motion, but only rotation.

* * *

Threshold is the point at which a stimulus is of sufficient intensity to begin to produce an effect. There are many types of thresholds related to many types of stimuli – pain, fear, sensory stimulation.

_Annoyance_, _shennanigans, Sherlock._

John has a high threshold for pain, a respected quality in a soldier. His threshold for fear, as well, is not as low as that of the general population, but then again, his fears are different. Different stimulus is required. Yet, of all his thresholds, the one that makes him stand out the most is his threshold for Sherlock. Sherlock is a stimulus, sometimes brilliant and sometimes infuriating. It's a constant cycle, featuring the alternation of case-related highs and between-cases lows. John knows both are a part of who Sherlock is, but that doesn't make the lows any easier to bare.

The cycle spins, and spins, and spins, and at times it drains John dry. It's a constant rotation, but John could swear every circle is a strange form of progress. It's exhausting, but it is also magnificent. So, every time the cycle is about to come to an end, and a decision about starting a new one has to be made, John takes the needed step, without hesitation, and goes for another spin.

* * *

One might love you the way they would the Sun at the centre of said revolutions–

Devoutly and passionately, the way life loves the origin of its induction,

And in superlatives, as one ought to that which embodies lack of moderation.

Yet wistfully, the way one loves all beautiful things in destruction.

It is a devastating love, to love that which burns itself and is destined for annihilation.

* * *

In the end, was there any other way for this to end? Perhaps, but this one is just so appropriate.

It's Sherlock, so somehow John wonders why this wasn't something he anticipated. It's Sherlock, so this feeling in John's chest isn't pain – it's agony. It's Sherlock, so this whole ordeal isn't sad – it's tragic. Superlatives – the only way to describe Sherlock. Superlatives – the only way to love Sherlock.

The Sun has burnt itself out, a final act of self-destruction in form of a blinding, dazzling supernova. Now there is only darkness and space debris left in the wake of the splendid incineration, the smell of burnt, phosphorous-covered match-head, lingering in the place where there once was a radiant flame.

It might be of use to revisit that first question - were it not for the cuffs chained around their wrists would John still have grabbed Sherlock's hand that night? The answer to it has already been established (_Yes, yes he would. Always._) Perhaps there is a better question to be asked, then – had he known the devastation that was to come, would John have ever let go of Sherlock's hand that night? A better question, yes, but one with a simple (_obvious_) answer (_No, of course not._).

So, what question would then be the best one, the quintessential one?

Perhaps one should wonder about this then – had he known the devastation that was to come, would John have chosen to take Sherlock's hand (_chosen to stand in the outpour, to smile through frost-bites, to jump, over and over again, to love purple, to spin in circles_) in the first place?

* * *

One might love you in so many ways –

Which is not to say one _should_ love you at all.

* * *

**It is in no way apparent that I am infatuated with these characters. :P**

**Thanks for reading!**


End file.
